“I could talk about her for ever to you,” was the answer; “although, as a matter of fact, I have not mentioned my child’s name to a living soul for going on thirty years. It is thirty years since she went to God, and she is as young as ever in the Heavenly Gardens—not seventeen yet; just like you.”
“Yes,” said Priscilla. “It is very, very interesting,” she added. “It seems to me,” she continued, “as if I knew now why I am taking this journey, and why God did not want me to see the lovely mountains that surround Zermatt.”
“You are more and more like Esther the more you talk,” said Mr Manchuri. “She was all for star-gazing and that sort of thing. I take it, that includes mountain-gazing and going into raptures at sunsets and at sunrises, and going into fits at shadows on the hills and lights across the valleys, and little flowers growing in clumps by brooks, and living things that you can see if you look deep into running water, and the songs of birds, and the low hum of insects on a summer evening. After these things, which she liked best of all, she loved books that made her think, and I could not get her to take the slightest interest in what she wore, or in money, bless you! But she was sweet beyond words with children, and with people who were in trouble; and there were girls of her own class in life who adored her. They are elderly women now—oldish, almost—with children of their own; but two or three of them have called their girls Esther after her, although they don’t resemble her one little bit. You are the first girl I ever came across who in the very least resembles her. I wish I could see your face in the light.”
“I love the things she loved,” said Priscilla.
“Hers must have been a most beautiful nature.” Then she added fervently, “It was very lucky for her that she died.”
“Why do you say that?” said Mr Manchuri. “Lucky for her? Well, perhaps so, for God and the angels and the Gardens of Heaven must be the very best company and place for one like my Esther; but nevertheless, she would have had a good time down here.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” said Priscilla stoutly. “The world is not made for people like her.”
“Then you don’t find the world a good place?” said Mr Manchuri, speaking in an interested voice.
Priscilla took a long time before she replied. Then she said very gravely:
“I don’t find the world a good place—I mean the people in it; and I want to say something”—her voice broke and changed—“I must say something; please let me.”